


The Destiny of Realms

by itstonedme



Series: Bardolas series [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conclusion to a 4-part series that began as a stand-alone with <i>The Bowman and the Prince.</i>  Legolas knows that his days in Laketown are winding down.</p><p>First posted on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/98763.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Destiny of Realms

The day came when Legolas knew that his time in Laketown was drawing to a close. Duty demanded that he return to his own where perils haunted Mirkwood and where his loyalty was aligned. He had served his purpose in helping to rebuild the lives of his neighbours in Esgaroth. He had worked in every way he knew to shoulder the damage done to them.

And he had endeavoured to offer succor in ways he had not known, small ways, ways of the heart. These were ways which the race of men had shared with greater immediacy and intimacy, perhaps because they were given so little time in which to do so, perhaps because it was their nature. Whatever the reason, Legolas had been drawn as a bee to nectar, enticed by the sweetness of the sentiments. 

However, there was a deeper, more private truth for his need to depart. A weight had fallen upon him. He had begun to glimpse the meaning of his father's warning as Thranduil had taken his leave of Laketown many months before. "Do not tarry here long," the Elvenking had told him. "They are not of your kind. Being amongst men will only draw your spirit downwards." 

At first, Legolas had thought his father's words disrespectful of men, rooted in suspicion and distrust. Now, as the months wound on, he understood them differently and knew his father's wisdom for what it was.

The race of men was no more able to control the circumstances of their existence than elves were of their own. Each charted their welfare as defined by the limitations of their beings. Even though Legolas had always lived to meet each day as it dawned and to look no further beyond, he now could not help but be drawn towards thoughts of what the future might hold. And with these thoughts, he became burdened as he considered mankind's brief passage through time. They were to him as a puppy or a song bird is to a child – much cared for and shorter lived. 

Were it not for his affection for Bard and his family, he would have completed his obligation to serve his neighbours with little concern for their collective fate. But this nectar of affection towards Bard and his family, this entrapment of his soul that they unconsciously wrapped around him, was changing him. That he should outlive them – and theirs and theirs again – told him that each life that passed would be a heartbreak he could not wish to bear. He knew that only distance and being with his own would serve as balm. 

*

"The time is coming when I must return to the woodland realm," Legolas told Bard one morning as they set forth towards the site where oxen carted off great blocks of stone from a part of Laketown destroyed in the Great Fire. He mentioned his father and duty, but he suspected Bard, being intuitive in ways he was not, thought otherwise.

Bard kept his eyes upon the path before them, marking his footsteps carefully, for the ground was littered with jagged rocks that had broken away during the cartage that had gone before. He nodded after a time. "You will be missed," he said. "By my children especially." 

"They have taken me to their hearts in the way that children do," Legolas said, but his words were solemn, for the sentiment crossed both ways. By his leaving, he knew he would cause the children sadness.

"They have taken you to their hearts in the way that all men do," Bard replied, knowing that neither he nor Legolas would speak of the absence that truly would afflict their hearts. Yet his words were sufficient for Legolas to know their meaning. 

They continued their climb through the broken earth. "It is as if you were become an uncle," Bard added lightly to fill the silence.

Legolas smiled at this. "Then as an uncle, I must be certain to return and often." 

Bard nodded in acknowledgment. Presently, he glanced to Legolas. "When had you thought to depart?"

"Within five days," Legolas replied. 

"Let me be with you when you tell the children."

*

They were told that evening as they all gathered together for the evening meal.

"Will you return?" Sigrid asked quietly.

"Of course," Legolas smiled. "Now more than before, Laketown needs Mirkwood's trade, and I will endeavour to see its safe delivery. Whenever I can, I will visit you. You have spoiled me, Sigrid, not only with your kindness but with your skills in the kitchen. To think I once believed lembas was all I wished to taste." She blushed at his words.

"Might we travel to Mirkwood?" Bain asked. "Legend of its majesty is widely held." 

"In truth, I cannot say," Legolas answered, for the realm was a stronghold that welcomed few. "Even as a prince, that is beyond my power to vouchsafe, but I will ask on your behalf, this I promise." 

Tilda was silent, her eyes upon her meal.

"And you, little one," Legolas said to her softly. "Have you a question of your elf prince?"

She shook her head, not looking up, but the movement was sufficient to loose a fat tear that fell into her bowl. 

Legolas stood silently and came around the table to her side. With his hand extended, he murmured, "Come with me, Tilda. I have something to tell you."

*

She sat upon his lap, head tucked beneath his chin, and Legolas watched the sun sink low over the town. Every thrum of her small body, her skittish heartbeat, the salt smell of her tears and breaths tangled within her throat, wounded him as much as her bravery touched him. "You have ever been special to me," Legolas told her. "You must know that, no?"

But she did not. People did not leave those who were special. 

He pulled her closer. "You think I leave because you did not try hard enough to keep me here or that I think more of others," he said. "Is that the truth of it?"

She answered with a hitched sob.

"Never think that, _henig_ ," Legolas said, speaking an endearment she had come to know. "Just as you would do everything that your father asks of you, I must hold my father with the same respect. He is a king with many burdens that must be shared, and only I am able to help him with those burdens. He needs me to be with him." He kissed her damp crown. "You have been my delight during these difficult months, and it pains me to leave you. Your laughter and your true heart gave me daily strength, did you know that? Those things will not change. No matter where I am, I will see your beautiful face before me and hear your joyful laugh. Whenever I espy a teardrop lily, I will pluck it for my hair and think of you. You have become a part of me, Tilda, whether I live in Mirkwood or in Esgaroth. I will not tell you not to be sad. I am sad too."

Her small hand reached out to grip his hair as it lay upon his chest. She said nothing, nor did he, and they stayed there long after the sun had set and the sounds of the dishes being cleared had turned to silence.

*

On the morrow, Bard and Bain took their mid-day break on a rock wall near the town centre, their meal of bread and cheese unwrapped between them, a skin of mead uncorked at their boots. "I have thought to take a journey," Bard told his son. "I would wish that you come."

"To Mirkwood?" the boy asked hopefully.

"Na, east," his father replied.

"Will we travel alone?" the boy asked.

"I wish to travel to Dale from which our people came," Bard said, "to learn of what remains. With the devil dragon slain, our people might regain the land of our fathers and work to rebuild our trade and alliance with the dwarves. We would take a small number," he continued, "no more than two others," and he mentioned those from their town, strong men both, hard workers who had toiled at the design and mechanics of rebuilding. 

The boy turned to him, his eyes at once bright at the prospect of adventure and solemn at the purpose of it. "When will we leave?" he asked. "And what of Sigrid and Tilda?"

Bard sighed. "For now, say nothing of this to your sisters, nor to any. It is foul timing to leave them in the care of others so soon after Legolas departs. And the days are still raw from the Desolation. When the time comes that they learn, we must both reassure them they will join us on a return journey."

*

Too much was being left unsaid between elf and man. But speaking of it was not their way. 

Bard trekked with Legolas far to the west of Laketown. It was the morning of the fifth day, and they were deep into it by the time they came to the woods, the river shore near their path growing steeper and cresting with boulders. 

"Let us rest," Legolas said for although his need for such was none, the day was heating steadily and Bard's return beneath the cloudless sky would serve him ill. They chose a stone promontory overlooking the eddying Forest River, its core split by a mighty oak, and sat with their backs to it. 

"If fortune is fair, my time in Esgaroth will draw to an end," Bard told Legolas.

The elf turned to him in uncertain silence.

"My homeland is Dale," Bard continued. "It is there I would wish to live out my life and my children theirs."

"Beneath Erebor?" Legolas asked. "In trade with the dwarves?"

Bard glanced at him, a grin carving its way into a smile. "Aye, upon the Celduin in trade with the dwarves. My people lived great ages with the dwarves as our neighbours, Legolas. I understand your sentiment, although it is not one I share."

Legolas looked away to the far bank. "If I recall, this is how our friendship started these many months gone, my bitterness with the dwarves abutting your patient tolerance. My attitude has not tempered, this you know. But it matters not my thoughts. I would give poor counsel. My kind keeps to its own, as is our way."

"Most of your kind," Bard said. "Not all. And my recollection is that our friendship began before that, when you stood at my back with your war-bow drawn upon Smaug as he laid waste to us. I am forever indebted to you, Prince Legolas." 

Legolas looked to him quickly because, save for early days, Bard had refrained from ever addressing him by his royal title. 

"Your presence and decorum and even your departure has spurred these plans," Bard continued. "I will remain forever grateful for that."

Legolas bowed his head to acknowledge Bard's thanks. "I thank you in return. But know that you are forever free of debt. Between us, nothing was or ever will be owed, only given." Then Legolas rose to his feet, his hand out to help Bard to his own, and they embraced. " _No veren_ ," Legolas said. "We were well met, my brother."

Bard closed his eyes. "It was destined," he replied. "And I chance to destiny your return."

Legolas took up his weapons and turned away, and Bard watched, heavy of heart, as his friend – this valiant being who had saved him in ways the elf would never know – took his leave. "Legolas," Bard called out, reflecting back to that day in the glade when Legolas had slipped away and left him alone. He expected no more than the parting salute that had been replied to him that day, an arm raised with no farewell glance in return. An expectation, yes, but a wish, never.

Yet Legolas stopped and with a quarter turn, cast his gaze back at the bowman. For a moment, he said nothing, only looked upon Bard solemnly. Then he was returning purposefully, leaping upon the moss-swept stone, his gaze intent. His arms came up when he was within steps of Bard, and the bowman stepped back to brace his footing, his hands raised in defense, such did he anticipate that Legolas would bear down as he had once before, although in anger or ardor, he could not tell. But instead, it was for Legolas to shed his gear, first his quiver which he let fall forgotten to the ground near Bard's feet, then his bow, which he placed carefully on the ground opposite. When he straightened, it was to find Bard still and watchful, their eyes scanning each other, faces mere inches apart. Bard's palms descended gently onto the doe skin tunic, his alarm banished.

Legolas raised his hands to sweep back the hair each side of Bard's face, and chastely, tenderly, he sank onto his lips. It lingered, his breath bathing Bard's cheek in anguished gusts before he pulled away, his expression one of sorrow. 

"This is why I must leave," Legolas uttered with bitter regret. "Of all, it is you who kept me here and it is you who drives me away. You have become like a stone around my neck, threatening to drown me in your humanity. If I stay, you will break my heart through no fault save your mortality."

Bard was speechless at this, puzzling, brows furrowed. His hands came up to grip the leather cuffs about Legolas' wrists. "Do you think it any different for me?" he finally replied. "Whether one lives three thousand years or a dozen, do you think it any different? Did I choose not to love the woman who bore my children for fear that one day she might die before me? Did she and I choose not to have children for fear one might die before us? Good friend, we race of men love despite death. It is our breath, our blood, our being."

"It can only be folly," Legolas said.

"It cannot!" Bard cried out. He inhaled deeply to settle his frustration and took Legolas' face in his hands. "For one who meets the fiercest of evils and a willingness to die at every affront, I never thought I would see an elf afraid."

"It is not fear," Legolas replied.

"It is exactly that," Bard said. "You fear grief. You would rather never know it."

"How many times do you think I have already known it?" Legolas said bitterly. "In my long life, friend, how many deaths do you think I have known?"

"Even the first was too many," Bard replied. "But you have taken grief and turned it into denial."

Sorrow swept Legolas' face. These sentiments were utterly foreign to the regard his kind had learned to hold for each other. "I cannot," he said. "These ties are too desperate."

"They are that," Bard said and his eyes were at once kind and knowing. "But they are more divine than not ever having known them." 

Bard knew he could no more undo centuries of how elves thought than a spider could unweave its web. Finally he said, "I know you must leave. But do not leave with denial at your back. Carry our time together with all the fondness you can bear. When the day for sadness arrives – as it will for either of us – give it its due on that day. But until that time, carry sweet reflection and the knowledge that there was a time when we were bound in laughter and battle and tenderness. Let the loss of it ache. You will survive it."

Legolas slipped his hands to embrace the bowman fiercely, his face in the coarse unwashed strands of Bard's hair, inhaling a scent he had come to welcome despite the odds, of earth and sweat and lust. Bard's words were true and wise, now that they had been given air. "We are still bound," he whispered. "No matter what is to pass, we will always be bound."

Bard embraced him as tightly in return. "Aye," he said. "Now go be with your own and tell them of your great adventures, just as mine will ever tell of your great deeds. Hold me in your heart, dear brother, for I will ever miss the strength and pleasure of your company. Never fear my mortality, just as I will never fear yours. Let us live with hope, so that I may look for you whenever those of Mirkwood venture my way."

And this time, after they kissed once more with a sweetness unmatched, Legolas took up his weapons, and he parted never once showing Bard his back, instead gracing him with a smile and a hand placed upon his heart before vanishing within the forest's embrace.


End file.
